Chiseled and Soft
by Dreamicide
Summary: He wasn't a dancer; he could only express through his hands. — LysanderHermia


**notes:** these two are so dorky. i love them.  
><strong>i own nothing.<strong>

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><p><strong>Chiseled and Soft<strong>

Lysander stepped back to take a look at his progress.

…This was it. He was finally going to do it. This time, he was _determined_ to finish the statue and present it to her. Far too many times had he given up at the last moment, but this time was his time. He needed to give this project everything he had.

It had been several days since he first took the large slab of marble and began chipping away at it. But now, anyone who cared to look would definitely see the image of a tall short-haired girl who liked to dance, majestic wings sprouting off from her back. Many sleepless nights he had spent in that room, holding the hammer and pick out carefully as he detailed the dress, her hands…

And her face. It was incredibly embarrassing to admit, but Lysander had ended up devoting much more time than necessary on the statue's face, smoothing out the cheeks and rounding out the little nose in the center. And it was shameful of him, but the art student had indeed caught himself gazing yearningly at the lips on more than one occasion.

Shaking his head to push the thoughts out of the way, Lysander made his way back over to the statue. He needed to work out more details in her arms—the elbow was pointing a little strangely.

And as he worked on the piece of art, the student tried to imagine her reaction once he finally unveiled it to her. If everything went well, she would accept him and his feelings, right? But if she didn't…

The usual cold, hard expression slowly grew somber. In the end, Hermia would probably dislike it and find his actions strange. But he was a sculptor—it was the only way he knew how to express himself. The words always just caught in his throat when he watched her stepping out of the classrooms. At the very least, even if she didn't like it, he would have conveyed his feelings. That was what needed to be done.

Pausing, he slid some fingers out over the elbow area, testing the stability of the arm's weight.

…The statue really was…_detailed_. Everything, down to her hair, face, torso…

Lysander couldn't stop the flush from overtaking his cheeks, eyebrows drawing together. Working on places like the…ch-chest were difficult. It was shameful enough that he even knew how to make it in the first place. But picking away at the marble, slowly forming her torso area for hours on end…his face was red the whole time. He tried not to think anything inappropriate, but he found it difficult sometimes.

And in the end, that would probably weird Hermia out even _more_. If he didn't get something right or exaggerated, then he was an idiot who didn't care. If he got everything…_too_ right and proportional, then he was a creep for practically admitting how much his eyes carefully lingered on her whenever they so much as passed each other in the hallways. It was almost a no-win situation.

But it was just a step he needed to take. Hermia may not like it, but he sincerely, honestly thought she was beautiful. He only wanted to try and replicate that beauty—although he wasn't sure if he even had the skills to do so.

Sighing, his eyes were suddenly caught by an unnecessary bump on the waist. Lysander frowned, and immediately dove down to fix it, smoothing away until the area was as petite and dainty as the inspiration.

He remembered the brunette often commenting on how tall she was. But he…liked her stature. Hermia was indeed taller than the average girl her age, but she also looked delicate, yet strong. Able to stretch her arms over her head and lift her foot up in the air as she danced…

For some reason, Lysander found himself swallowing, eyes going back to the waist area he just touched up on. It was no question that he was always in the audience for every ballet production Hermia participated in. Even if she was only a background dancer, he was there, eyes drinking her in. He remembered every ballet, every costume, every dance. And when she wasn't on the stage, the art student would find himself also studying the two main characters in their usual _pas de deux_.

Lysander…wasn't a ballet dancer. Or any sort of dancer, period. His feet were too awkward and large to try any choreography, even a simple one-two-three-one-two-three. He knew he would probably end up tripping over himself and falling on her.

And yet…he liked imagining having the ability to dance something like a _pas de deux_ with Hermia. The dancers always looked so lovingly into each other's eyes as the man lifted the girl up easily, both trusting each other for support and displaying their skills beautifully. It always looked so graceful and intimate. But he could never do something like that. Only his hands had any sort of talent.

Even as he mused, Lysander was still looking at the petite waist of his long-time crush—no, the _statue_. That he was working on to present her. It was the _statue_ he was standing in front of, damn it.

The student sighed exasperatedly, hitting himself on the forehead. And he was about to turn away, about to go back and maybe get some lunch—after neglecting to eat since dinner from the previous day—but stopped himself.

His gaze lowered, in deep thought.

…Hermia would like to be able to dance with the one she likes, wouldn't she.

…

Slowly, he reached one hand out, hesitantly placing it above the area where he just patched up. And swallowed, before doing the same with the other, holding the statue by its sides, blushing furiously.

This—this was sort of the way two dancers looked when they did a _pas de deux_ in the ballets Hermia performed in. The male always held the female like this, by the waist. And he would guide the other in their movements, the girl trusting his support unconditionally as she all but flew in the air on his arms.

Lysander could never do something like that.

And yet, he only found himself still holding the statue, trying to envision him in the place of a danseur he recently watched. His feet stuck firmly to the ground, but in his mind's eye he was moving rapidly across the floor of a practice room, Hermia being the only other occupant and beaming as he pressed his palm to the small of her back, her arms outstretched over their heads.

Suddenly, his eyes were on the statue's face.

The real Hermia would move beautifully, he just knew it.

And damn him, he had spent far too much time detailing her lips. The entirety of her glowing face, really. It was stupid how tempted he was to just lean in closer and try to imagine something warm and soft replacing the cold hard marble against his—

Suddenly a knock at the door sounded out in the room, breaking him out of his wandering thoughts so harshly that he almost tripped over himself in a flail. His face blushing furiously—he couldn't believe he was actually _thinking_ of something like that—Lysander gathered his bearings together before marching over to the door, a little put out that someone was interrupting him while he was working so diligently on a statue he was rather devoted to.

But as soon as that door opened up, he gaped, cheeks reddening all anew.

"Ah—um, hello, Lysander, I…"

**End**


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